Call Dropped
by Hoperise
Summary: Mother's Day is coming up and Jake still hasn't told the squad about what happened while he was undercover. Holt takes issue with this. (Sequel to Out of Range)


Call Dropped

Setting: Midway through Season 2. Sequel to Out of Range.

Summary: Mother's Day is coming up and Jake still hasn't told the squad about what happened while he was undercover. Holt takes issue with this.

* * *

"I can't believe that you and your dad celebrate Mothers' Day the way way my mom and I do. You do not get facials with your father." Gina declared, massaging her forehead with manicured fingers.

Boyle nodded, missing the inherent derision. "It's true! After brunch, Dad and I go for a Boyle Boy's day where I celebrate the way he's been both a mom and a dad to me."

"I think it's sweet." Santiago declared, smiling from her desk.

"How 'bout you, Amy? Does your mom rake in the goodies after popping out eight kids?" Gina asked, tilting her head to the side as if considering mass childbirth as a possibility. After a moment, she shuddered and shook her head.

Santiago shrugged. She pursed her lips and looked up, trying to downplay her excitement. "A few of my brothers are going to be in town this weekend, so we're going to get together to have carne asada. There'll be a lot of kids running around, but it'll be a good time."

Rosa snorted. "Awesome. You're terrible with kids. I'm sure it'll be a train wreck."

Rolling her eyes, Santiago replied, "Yeah? What are you doing for your mom?"

The question hung in the air a moment. "I will be doing... something." Rosa replied, returning her attention to her computer screen.

"My wife told me that all she wants is a day off. Terry's on full-time Daddy Duty so Sharon can sleep and finish watching Daredevil without any more interruptions." Terry announced, folding his hands behind his head.

Santiago tilted her head to the side and made an appropriate 'awww' face. Finished with her paperwork for the day and having maxed out the amount of cases she could take from the captain (again), she tossed Jake's rubber band ball from hand to hand. "What about you, Jake?"

Jake had been studiously ignoring the topic, putting an elaborate amount of detail into his case report so he could look extra focused. He didn't want to get into the same area code as this conversation. Despite his best efforts, everywhere he looked these days, he was swarmed with billboards and commercials guilt-tripping him over what to do for his mom.

The last thing he'd done for his mom was delete her messages off his voicemail.

He'd been undercover at the time, with no way to explain why he'd blown up at his bosses and gotten fired from his dream job. His mom had had endless patience for his shenanigans, but she was a Jewish momma at heart. She kept trying to hook him up with some nice girl so he'd settle down and give her some grandkids. Honestly, he had planned to dodge her calls until after the assignment was finished and he could share the whole story over a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Jake Peralta was a master of avoidance.

And then she was gone.

Jake didn't even remember what the last conversation they'd had was about.

Guilt gnawed holes in his stomach lining. He tried to look absorbed in his report, but Amy's sun-drenched skin was so difficult to ignore.

"Jake?"

"Hmm?" He replied, raising his eyebrows and keeping his eyes glued on the screen.

"Big plans for Mothers' Day?"

Just open your mouth. Tell them she died. They should know by now.

"I- yeah. I'm visiting my mom." Jake said, scratching the back of his neck. At her plot. In the graveyard. Where she was. Damnit. Why didn't the rest of those words come out of his mouth?

Intrigued, Boyle looked up. "And? Video games? Dinner plans? I know some great places if you haven't made a reservation yet."

A knife twisted in his gut. No, he definitely wouldn't be making any reservations. He opened his mouth again. Tried to force out a reply. "No, we're staying in instead. She's gonna kick my ass in Madden." He forced a laugh and wondered if this conversation was as uncomfortable for everyone else as it was for him.

Standing in his doorway, Holt's voice sounded. "Peralta, may I see you in my office?"

Sweet freedom. Jake rolled back from his desk and tried not to walk away like a man getting out of jail.

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" Jake said, striding into the office.

Holt closed the door and took his time making his way back to his desk. He let out a low breath and looked at Jake over the rims of his glasses. "I see you haven't gotten around to telling the squad about your mom just yet?"

Oh, that's what this was about. Settling into a chair with a groan, Jake shrugged. "I said something. That something may or may not have been 96 percent lie, but I said something."

Holt folded his hands in front of him, unimpressed. "Peralta, what are you actually doing for Mother's Day?"

"I dunno. Visiting the cemetery and getting really drunk." He looked away. Grief was an ugly, messy thing. And he was really bad at it.

Holt sighed and took his glasses off, setting them on the desk. "The department has access to a number of excellent therapists. If you're concerned about the cost-"

"It's not that. Well, that's part of it, but-" Jake's voice broke off. He scrubbed his face with one hand. "Do normal parents do that? Teach their kids how to deal with stuff? Because I'm coming up empty here." He stood up from the chair, turning around to gather himself. "I have no idea how to deal with this. My usual way of dealing with personal problems is pretending they don't exist."

"Hence the crushing debt." Holt observed wryly. "Peralta, I'll make this easy on you. Take Sunday off."

Raising his hands in protest, Jake's eyes widened. "What? No! How else am I going to duck all this stupid mushy Mothers' Day crap?"

"The point is to stop avoiding it. This isn't a discussion, Peralta. Find someone to talk to before I get the paperwork together to order you to do it." The captain paused, considering his words. Jake was reminded of the awkwardly intense moment they'd had in the interrogation room months back. "Peralta, I know your time undercover took a lot out of you. Don't let it take your friends, too."

Jake huffed out a breath. "Are we done here?"

Holt nodded. "Dismissed."

His expression was stormy as he strode out of the captain's office. Boyle looked up from across the aisle, opening his mouth to inquire.

Catching the movement in his peripheral vision, Jake shook his head.

Boyle closed his mouth and went back to work.

Sunday morning, Jake slept late. Or at least he tried to. He kept waking up every few hours, a vague sense of impending terror clutching at his guts. Determined not to seize this particular day, Jake lay in bed, set his jaw, and waited for his pulse to slow enough to fall back to sleep.

Sometime after noon he rolled out of bed and put on a pair of good jeans and a black button-up, and his leather jacket. On his way to the cemetery, he passed a florist and found himself pulling over. He thought he might drop twenty bucks on a nice little bouquet and be on his way. Instead -

"Twelve bucks for one rose? This is highway robbery!" Jake complained, frowning at the cashier behind the counter.

The cashier, a bored-looking dude with a sweet man-bun (a hairstyle which Jake definitely thought he could rock if he wanted to), snorted dismissively. "You think you're the only guy in Brooklyn buying flowers today? Your fault for waitin' this long, pal."

A haughty reply escaped him before he could stop himself. "Yeah, well, the joke's on you, _pal_. My mom's dead." He'd wanted to wipe the smarmy grin off the cashier's face, which he did. But the look of pity that replaced it left Jake feeling hollow and queasy.

He left the flower shop without buying anything. Some part of him felt successful - hey, he'd talked to someone! - until he realized that Holt probably wouldn't count yelling at a florist as opening up. Oh well, he'd chalk it up as a win anyways. He made a brief stop at a convenience store instead.

Graveyards weren't usually the most fun places to hang out, but Mothers' Day was an especially crappy day to visit. If he saw another toddler in a sundress being carried by a single parent, he was gonna lose it.

But Jake Peralta was no coward. Usually. So he bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to keep going.

The problem was that his mom was buried in a newer section of the cemetery, so there were lots of those young kids and softly not-crying dads around.

Jake wondered briefly if the milk he'd put in his coffee had gone sour.

His mom had a little life insurance, thankfully, so she had a pretty sweet spot under some shady trees. Otherwise she would have gone on a shelf in his living room. The sod over her plot had begun to blend into the surrounding grass, a tiny aluminum sign at the head of the plot marking her resting place until the ground settled enough to support a permanent headstone.

For some absurd reason, the temporary marker pissed him off. Its simplicity stood in discord with the significance of her life. Small font marked his mother's name, the name of the funeral home, the date of her death, and the location of her plot. That was it. The whole of his mother's life - every late night spent working to support him after Dad took off, every note left in his lunchbox, every sacrifice she made so he could have a normal childhood with baseball and tap and summer camp - summed up in four lines.

Jake didn't know what people sought from the gravesides of their loved ones. Whatever it was - closure, peace, feeling close to the deceased - he wasn't getting any of it. He certainly didn't feel like talking to the dumb little sign. Instead, he dug in his pocket and pulled out the pack of Marlboro Reds he'd bought at the convenience store. He palmed the pack for a moment, the cellophane crinkling in his grip.

He thought about running down to the bodega when he was ten to pick up loosies for his mom. How she'd tanned his hide when she caught him smoking one.

He leaned the carton up against the grave marker and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Well, she'd been right again. It wasn't the cigarettes that got her. It was bad visibility on a rainy night, an unexpected curve on an unfamiliar road. Just another one of those things he couldn't control.

Wanting to be anywhere but there, Jake found a bench under one of the trees and sat down.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He sent off a text like a message in a bottle, not sure how or if it would reach land.

 _contact. dad  
_ _sent: 3:07 pm_

 _hey i really need to talk to you about something_

The shifting shadows of leaves against the manicured lawn marked the passing of time. Jake fiddled with his phone, rehearsing ten different ways to tell his dad that Mom died. Scattered thoughts and memories turned his brain into soggy oatmeal, impossible to slog through.

Maybe that was why he missed the sound of approaching footsteps until they were right beside him.

"Peralta."

Jake started. He whipped his head around to see- "What the h- _iii, Rosa!_ " Forcing his face into a broad grin, he reached down and picked his phone from the gravel path where he'd dropped it.

She snickered, folding her arms across the front of her formal leather jacket and slacks. "I called your name like five times. Good observational skills, detective."

"Ha, ha." Jake said, his oatmeal brain not up to its usual standard of snappy comebacks. "What brings you here? You look almost dressed up - if a grenade launcher can look formal."

Rosa stared at him for a long moment, then nodded over her shoulder at a distant group of women behind her. "Came from lunch. Mom wanted to visit her mom."

He leaned back, impressed, his lips shifting into a surprised grin. "The Diaz family? Can I run over and meet them?"

"Not if you want your legs to stay unbroken." Rosa said evenly. "What are you doing here? I thought you were going to see your mom."

Jake's mouth opened to say some combination of _I am I did She's right over there,_ and his courage fizzled like a firecracker in a toilet bowl. Maybe he was ready to open up over text to a man hundreds of miles away, but he wasn't prepared to do this face-to-face. "Already saw her. Figured I'd come see Nana, the other woman who raised me and all." That actually wasn't a bad idea, if he weren't already working up the mental energy to ditch this place.

Rosa nodded, but her cool gaze hadn't lessened in its intensity. "Ever since you got back, you've been acting really weird. You know, focused. What's goin' on with you, Jake?"

His phone pinged. Shoulders shifting uncomfortably, Jake glanced down.

 _1 NEW MESSAGE_

 _contact. dad  
_ _rcvd: 3:36 pm_

 _new phone who dis_

The lines around Jake's mouth tightened. He didn't even rate a transfer from one phone to another with that guy. So much for talking with Dad.

Jake let out an exasperated breath and shook his head, jamming his hands back in his pockets. "Yeah, well, maybe I joined Team-Bottle-It-Up-Till-You're-On-Your-Deathbed. I thought you of all people would understand that. Sharing is for losers."

Sharp brown eyes narrowed, sweeping over him with the calculating gaze he'd seen Rosa use in interrogation hundreds of times. "Here's the thing about keeping stuff bottled up: it builds up pressure. If you don't release that pressure somehow, you're gonna explode all over the place."

He couldn't resist grinning at the setup, opening his mouth to comment-

"Make a sex joke and I punch you in the throat." Rosa snapped.

Jake pouted, shoulders slumping.

She shifted her weight away from him. "Talk to me. Don't talk to me. Whatever, I don't care." She set her narrow jaw, her gaze flashing away for a moment before returning with new strength. "Just do _something_ before you go off and get yourself shot."

"Look, I'm doing fine. I'm closing cases, I'm dating Sophia; I've got it covered." Jake replied. Even though he hadn't seen Sophia for the better part of a week and so many topics were off limits to her that he was starting to feel like he was undercover in his own relationship.

Rosa nodded slowly. She put her hands on her hips and scuffed a booted toe against the gravel. "Could be true, sometimes. Then sometimes I look at your desk and wonder where my friend went."

Huffing out a breath, Jake stood up and turned around to give himself a moment. He tried not to glance at the distant pack of cigarettes resting against his mom's grave, tried not to think about the rotting corpse below.

His mouth was dry. When Jake found his voice again, it was flat and weary. "I don't know if I can be that guy again. There are some things that change you when you see them. You become either the guy that did something, or the guy that sat back and did nothing."

"What about the guy who tried his damnedest every single time?"

Jake scoffed. His lips formed a wonky half smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I don't think I've met that guy. Let me know if he ever shows up."

Then, sudden pain in his shoulder.

Stumbling to the side, Jake grabbed for the arm that Rosa had just socked. "Ow! What was that for?"

She glowered, clenching her fist. "That's my friend you're shit-talking."

"That hurt!" Jake observed in a distinctly not-whining voice, rubbing his shoulder.

"Shut up. Wait here." Rosa demanded. She turned around and strode back to her family. They exchanged a few words before Rosa came back around, her steps commanding and direct. She held her palm out towards him. "Gimme your keys."

"Why?" He asked, squinting suspiciously.

"Because I said so and you're a scared little girl." She clarified.

Jake rolled his eyes. "If you're gonna insult me, could you at least make it gender neutral? I would also accept scared chihuahua or unsettled sloth."

"Fine, you're an unsettled sloth. Hand over the keys." Her lips thinned at his reluctance. She beckoned with her fingertips. "Thousand push-ups, Peralta. C'mon."

Arguing the point would take way more energy than his oatmeal brain could muster. He sighed and placed his keys in her waiting hand.

They drove in silence, ending up at a private shooting range. Shockingly, it wasn't packed on a holiday Sunday afternoon, so they had the run of the place. Rosa passed him a set of goggles and ear muffs and told him to call a target for her - the first to miss would buy the first round of drinks.

Rosa needled him until his competitive side roared to life and his enthusiasm was no longer feigned. They played for accuracy, for speed. They played for pride. And when they hit the bar that night, they drank in silence - the way that Rosa liked and the way Jake needed.

So what if he didn't have words to explain himself just yet. Rosa had never needed words to understand him.

When he got home that night, enough of Jake's frustration had passed that he was ready to take out his phone and start the conversation with his dad once more.

 _contact. dad  
_ _sent: 11:42 pm_

 _its jake. your son_

 _contact. dad  
_ _rcvd: 11:54 pm_

 _jakey! sry bout that LOL. you're still a cop right?_

 _contact. dad  
_ _sent: 11:56 pm_

 _well i made detective a few years back but ya_

 _contact. dad  
_ _rcvd: 11:57 pm_

 _even better!_

 _contact. dad  
_ _rcvd: 11:59 pm_

 _theres somethingg i wanted to talk 2 you about 2._

 _contact. dad  
_ _sent: 12:00 am_

 _really?_

 _contact. dad  
_ _rcvd: 12:02 am_

 _srsly. im gonna be in nyc in a couple weeks_

 _contact. dad  
_ _rcvd: 12:03 am_

 _talk then?_

 _contact. dad  
_ _sent: 12:06 am_

 _wow ok. sounds good_

* * *

 **notes.**

(I know that writing this much about Jake's mom is basically guaranteeing that she's going to make a guest appearance in the next season and this whole arc will get Jossed.)

Believe it or not, this chapter was the one that gave me the most trouble. I spent a long time wondering if I should leave it to just the conversation with Holt and Jake texting his dad in the cemetery, but then Rosa muscled her way in and wouldn't let go. Hope you enjoyed it!

One last chapter to go. Tune in next time for Connection Found.

 **Don't write the story. Live the story.**


End file.
